Sinful Sunday: Waiting, holding that cane

Arethusa generally got the cane for one of three reasons: 

(1). Late handing in schoolwork;

(2). Skipping medical appointments;

(3). Sex.

Sometimes they overlapped a bit. Sex was always there. But this time it was because she’d broken a favourite mug of mine, hidden the pieces and lied to me about it. Arethusa didn’t have a bratty bone in her body, I’d have thought, and that was very uncharacteristic misbehaviour for her. 

But it wasn’t going to happen again.

There were two canes that she knew well. One was named “Sting”. The heavier one, that she’s holding between her buttocks, is “Striper”. A long session with Striper tends to be hot, and it always ends in yowling, grunty sex, but it’s also corrective.

When the punishment is going to be painful and dramatic, there should always be a period of waiting and thinking first.


Wicked Wednesday: Dear Diary

[Just taking a break from the Droit de Seigneur saga. Yvain will be back next week…) 

Somewhere a book is marked, “Fuck off this is my diary”

12 March

Last night I was in bed with Angela. I knew we were coming apart. I love her, passionately, with every cell of my body and impulse of my mind. So I was coming apart too. Lying beside the woman I love, feeling lonely and afraid. I said I was afraid. I shouldn’t have.

She’s getting more and more drawn into Utrantia. I can’t understand why. We used to laugh together about homeopaths, and about the time the waif down the road crashed into our bedroom because there were aliens chasing her. There was something about Ley lines, too. She only smoked dope, but this must have been good.

Actually, I don’t think Angela laughed as much as me, on that one. It was obvious that I thought our stoned waif seeking sanctuary was charmingly eccentric and maybe I was so tolerant because I fancied her. Moving along …

Angela’s an intelligent woman. And, until recently she was rational and sceptical. I couldn’t understand how she could fall for bullshit like Utrantia. Last night I said so, and set out my case: ten reasons why Utrantia is bullshit. 

Yes, Diary, you think that was a desperate and stupid thing to do, and you’re right. It only cast me even more firmly in the role of enemy. Outsider. Someone in the way.


16 March

Angela didn’t come home last night. I cried. I listened to sad music. This didn’t help. Eventually I got out of bed, got dressed, and went two doors down to see the marijuana girl: Lissa. She answered the door in her underpants and a t-shirt. She was delighted to see me and she invited me in.

So we had a cup of tea, and I talked about how I was losing Angela. She said, “Right.” She got up and took a bottle of Amaretto. It’s purple, and very strong for a girl’s drink. But she paused at the mantlepiece, knowing that I’d be watching her wiggle. She went up on tiptoe, which she didn’t actually need to do. But the effect on her arse and thighs was all it should be.

I was being subjected to Feminine Wiles. She brought back the bottle and no glasses, so we drank from the neck. And of course we fucked, her bending over the table, me pumping blissfully away behind her, while she made delighted gurgling noises.  

That’s the first time I’ve ever been unfaithful to Angela. That’s bitter-sweet, but if I stayed home it would only have been bitter. 

Then we went to her bed.


17 March

In the morning I went home. Angela was there, putting make-up on. She doesn’t wear make-up.

I’d had a good night, and Lissa had treated me lovingly and with affection, and the sex was good and nearly unending. We had about three hours’ sleep. But seeing Angela there, composed, made up because someone else liked her to wear make-up, it still hurt my heart.

She asked me where I’d been. I said I’d missed her, and gone to talk to Michael, a friend of mine. A friend who would always say I’ve been with him, if someone asked.

She said she was inviting a Utrantia man for dinner, tomorrow. “Don’t worry; I’ll cook.”

So I said I’d invite Lissa, the alien-seer from down the road.

So there!

Yeah, what am I, four?

This is a set-up for disaster.


20 March 

That was unexpected, in so many ways. The Utrantia guy didn’t show up. I suppose he thought of me as a jealous husband. Which I sort of am, except for the husband part, but I’m civilised and wasn’t going to throw a scene or my fists. 

Anyway, it was dinner for three. Angela started noticing that Lissa and I were doing most of the talking, and talking to each other and not much to her. She got up, enraged, and climbed into her car and drove off. 

So Lissa and I went to bed. My bed. My and Angela’s bed, which had never had a body in it except for hers and mine. 

I was doing Lissa with my face sweetly held in her thighs while I licked her. My nose was actually inside her. Her thighs against my ears meant I didn’t hear Angela return, until she slammed the door. Then I looked up.








She’d slammed the door with her inside. She said, “That’s my bed. And that bloody cock, Lissa, that’s mine too.”

She took her clothes off. Not in a seductive way. It was angry stripping. Then she walked over and kissed Lissa’s mouth. It started angry, and got passionate. So I smacked her arse, since it was in reach and she’d always liked that.

She turned at me, still angry. “Why don’t you fuck the girl? You can fuck her, I won’t mind. If you do me with your face at the same time.”

So that was what happened. It was a weird night, emotionally, Lissa and I being very tender with each other and with Angela, and Angela having angry sex with both of us.

So that was complicated. And probably the hottest night of my life, so far.


23 March

Angela’s moving out. Lissa is happy to move in, and I guess she will, soon. So that’s a strange transition. I didn’t plan it, or expect it. All we really know is that we like each other, and work, sexually. But Lissa is nice to me. Angela hasn’t been for ages. Nice is better.

Last night I made dinner for the three of us. Ratatouille. Angela knows that that’s my seduction dish, and that I wasn’t aiming it at her. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

At the table Angela said, “I’ve got people to help me pack up and move, tomorrow. To Dean’s place. He’s a Utrantia leader. He’s really wise, you smug prick.”

I said, “OK.” I’d learned, too late, not to argue.

“So tonight’s the last night I’m ever going to fuck you. Or Lissa, if that’s OK with you?”

Lissa said, “Sure. Why not? You’re very fuckable.”

Angela said, “So we’re fucking goodbye. I guess you two aren’t, but I am. So we may as well make it good.”

Diary, I could tell you lots of things about our bodies and what we did and how we combined and pushed.

But it was the saddest, and happiest, night of my life. And I’m not going to talk about it, not even to you.

Sinful Sunday: Sunday, Sunday

There haven’t been many photos of your humble narrator, of a Sinful Sunday.

But I dunno, this Sunday I was feeling relaxed and happy and not very sinful at all. So here I am, a rare selfie, taking sensual pleasure. 

One thing I’ll say for this image: I’m very clean.

Droit de Seigneur 7

Yvain had looked up at the Seigneur, lying on her back, thighs parted as wide as she could for him, watching him raise the riding crop, wondering if he meant to lash her cunt or her thighs. She’d said, “Please,” and the word still echoed in her mind. 

She knew she hadn’t been crying out for mercy. She’d wanted him to know that she needed his mark, no, his marks, on her thighs, so that when she wrapped them round his body, as she knew she would soon, she could hold him tight and feel that pain and his ownership even as he took her.

Or she meant, she wanted him to know that she was his, and that it felt right to be his, even as he hurt her, and had her casually punished by others, sometimes without even bothering to watch. 

He smiled down at her. “You weren’t told you can speak, little Yvain. You keep demanding more punishment, don’t you?”

Yvain was wide-eyed. That couldn’t be true, and yet it was. “I’m sorry, my Seigneur.” 

“That wasn’t an answer, Yvain.” He brought the crop down, on her inner left thigh, on soft, plump flesh close to her opened cunt. Suddenly, without build-up, there was a line of hot pain across that thigh, and the crack of the leather on her soft skin.

Yvan wailed, lost. “Yes! I meant yes, my Seigneur! I’m sorry.” 

“You have permission to speak, now. I don’t want to have to punish you for every sound you make. In the meantime, keep your thighs well spread, Yvain. Don’t tense your muscles.” The Seigneur raised the crop again. It hovered, ready to strike. He waited, till she dared to look him in the eyes. Then he smiled at her and struck again. The crop wrote a fresh hot weal of pain on her right inner thigh. 

Yvain gasped and writhed. She felt the urge to thank him. It seemed absurd and yet it was overpowering. “Thank you, my Seigneur.”

He laughed, mouth closed, inside her throat. “You have four more strokes, little one. Two for your squealing, out in the corridor, when you were giving Karl his exercise and you were told to remain silent. And we have to deal with the ‘please’. I like the sentiment, but you disobeyed me when you spoke.”

Yvain felt, again, her body yearning. She nodded, but said nothing.

“I’m going to give you two strokes for each. Is that fair?”

“Yes, my Seigneur. Of course it is. I hate disobeying you. I want to show you – ” But she broke off. She didn’t have the words. 

“Good. You know you are aroused, Yvain. You know that if you touched your cunt now, you would come. Is this true?”

“Yes, my Seigneur. I’m very close.” 

“The strokes hurt less when you’re aroused. I think you’ve noticed that.”

“Yes, my Seigneur. It’s true.”

“I’m going to make you come, soon, little one.”

Yvain nodded. That was true, too.

“Would you prefer to have your four strokes now, or after you’ve come?”

“Now, please! I mean, my Seigneur!”

He smiled, and applied the four strokes, unhurried, letting her absorb each one, and waiting till she met his eyes before delivering the next. At the end Yvain, with six reddish black raised weals burning on her inner thighs, wanted to scream, though not with pain.

The Seigneur knelt then. “It’s time you gave me your first orgasm, little Yvain.” He leaned forward till his head was between her burningly sensitive thighs. He lowered his face till she felt his tongue touch the sleek wetness off her cunt.

No man, or woman had done that before. It felt like a rush of pleasure, like th sweetest food she had ever eaten. Her thighs closed a little, so she could feel her welts against his face. His tongue moved, licking upwards. She moaned. Then, this time knowing what she meant, she said, “Please.” 



Sinful Sunday: Now Got to My Room!

This was early in our relationship. We were doing “Master” training. The rule was that Arethusa didn’t have to call me “Master” every time she spoke to me. But if five utterances went by without her using the slavegirl’s polite form of address, then she’d get a spanking. 

I’d insisted on “Master” partly because she’d said it sounded awkward, to her. Right, I thought, as Doms will.

So this was instant punishment, without any formality. Standing, arms folded in front of her so she wasn’t tempted to bring her hands back to protect her arse, getting soundly spanked.

She’d said, “Sorry, Master!” at least fifteen times before I stopped.

“Right,” I said. “Now go to my room. Take your clothes off and wait for me. Hands and knees, on the bed.” 

“Yes, Master.” Arethusa shuffled off, bed-wards, panties still down.

It became natural, true and not at all awkward, very quickly.





Wicked Wednesday: Droit de Seigneur 6

The Seigneur reached out and held Yvain by the hair, and pulled her upright. He said, “Were you asked to make a sound?”

Yvain looked at his chest, afraid to meet his eyes. “N-no, my Seigneur.”

The Seigneur’s voice was soft, amused. It frightened her more than if he had shouted at her. “No, you weren’t. In fact you were told to be silent. You’re not a very obedient girl, are you?”

Yvain was near tears. Not, she knew, because she was about to be punished, but because she had displeased him. “N-no, my Seigneur. I am sorry. It is for you to judge, but I think I need punishment for that.”

He pulled her face upright, so she looked at his. He kissed her again. Yvain closed her eyes, and relaxed her body against him.

“You do need punishment, my little serf slut. You need it badly. And you need it always. If it weren’t for Karl and the beldam here, you’d tire me out.”

Just the mention of those two servants made her conscious of the heat and pain in her buttocks, and the colour she still must be, where she’d had the strap.

She wasn’t sure what to say to the Seigneur, so she said nothing.

The Seigneur pushed her away. “Get on the bed, Yvain. On your back, with your knees up and your thighs wide as you can get them. Now!”

“Yes, my Seigneur.” Yvain hastened to the bed, feeling the self of the eiderdown soft and cool under her bottom. She raised her knees as instructed. Then she hesitated for a second before opening herself.

It took some effort to get her thighs as wide as she absolutely could, but she wanted him to see that she was trying.

But he did not look at her. He said to the beldam, “Beldam, put the strap on the bed beside the pillow, in case I need to persuade this slut to make better efforts. And fetch my riding crop.”

The beldam curtsied, “Yes, my Seigneur,” and obeyed. She looked sardonically down at Yvain while she placed the strap on the bed, for the Seigneur to use. She muttered, “He lays it on harder than I do.”

Then she went to a cupboard beside the bed, took out and shook a black length of whalebone, covered in plaited leather, with a hassle at the tip. She did not carry this by the handle, but carried it to the Seigneur on her two open hands. “My Seigneur,” she said.

“Thank you, beldam. I think I can take it from here. You may go.”

The beldam curtsied again, said, “Yes, my Seigneur,” and opened the door. As the door opened, all three heard the sound, from below them, of a muffled crack of leather on bare flesh, and a woman’s cry of pain and woe. The beldam said, “Karl is giving Gisela her schooling.”

The Seigneur looked irritated. “Just so.” He waved the beldam away, moving only his fingers. The door closed.

The Seigneur looked down at Yvain, riding crop in his hand. He pressed the tip of the crop between her parted thighs, against the soft skin of her perineum. Yvain knew she was in danger of moaning, if that tassel moved. She bit her lip. Then the tip and its tassel rose, up, a little way between the lips off her cunt, and Yvain jolted, her stomach muscles trembling as she tried to keep still.

Then he smacked her cunt once, lightly, and then showed her the leather tassel, wet with her arousal. “You do need punishment, don’t you, Yvain? Really need it.”

Yvain knew he was no longer talking about her small, involuntary acts of disobedience. “Yes, my Seigneur. It seems I do. It is how I am made.”

The Seigneur smiled. “Then keep still for me, Yvain. You have a lot to learn.” He let her watch while he raised the crop, very slowly, till it hovered in the air, over his shoulder.

Yvain couldn’t help it. She knew she was not allowed to speak. She said, “Please.” Even she wasn’t sure what she meant.

Sinful Sunday: Stone hard

I took this photo in northern India, after the last Eroticon, the last time I travelled.

I’m taking a break from the wonders of the flesh this week. To celebrate the erotic stone friezes on the temples of Khajuraho. Where I’m longing to return, when the world opens again. The Indian economy is going to need visitors, urgently, once it’s safe again. 

Anyway, this man is a Brahmin – I’ve forgotten the signs that tell you he’s a Brahmin – keeping three woman happy at once, with his cock and his hands. And the thing that impresses me, cause I’ve sort of done that a couple of times, when a night went wonderfully, fairy-dust beautiful, is that he is STANDING ON HIS HEAD while he’s at it.

I’ve never managed that.

I think you have to get born into the Brahmin caste so you can’t join it, but if they ever had a recruitment drive, this would be the poster! 

Wicked Wednesday: Droit de Seigneur 5

The Seigneur still held her chin when he broke off the kiss. Yvain missed that contact. Her body and mind were responding to him and his treatment of her in powerful and unexpected ways. She found herself wondering what being taken by him, having his cock in her body, would be like. Apart from the sensations she’d given herself with her fingers she had little to go on. It would be lovely. But he was so cruel. She looked up into his eyes, confused. 

The Seigneur smiled. “Is a serf entitled to look at the Seigneur without permission?”

Yvain shuddered. “No, my Seigneur. I beg your forgiveness.” 

“You may possibly have that, after you’ve earned it. Put your feet wide apart, and bend at the waist, girl. Beldam, when I say, you may commence her punishment.”

“Yes, my Seigneur.” Yvain didn’t dare look back, but she was sure the beldam was smiling at her Seigneur, pleased with the situation. She heard the beldam step to her right side, slightly behind her.

The Seigneur said, “Girl, I take it you are unfamiliar with cocks. But I’m sure you know how to undo buttons.”

“Yes, Seigneur. I am.” She had unbuttoned and buttoned her sister’s baby’s vest often enough.

“Then undo my buttons, starting at my waist and working down. You will be freeing and stroking my cock. Understood?”

Yvain blushed again. “Yes, my Seigneur.”

“Good. You handle my cock gently, as if it is a dove in your hands. Gentle. If you are not sufficiently gentle, you will go outside, naked as you are, and pluck and strip me a switch, and bring it back to me to flog you wth. Now hold your position, legs apart, bent at the waist. Now, begin, girl.”

Yvain reached and undid the top button of his dark-blue silken breaches. Then the next. At the third button she was aware of his cock, hard, straining against the material. She undid the last two buttons, and released a cylinder of flesh, thick and hard, though the skin itself was deliciously soft. She clasped it between her hands, savouring its pulse and its warmth.

The Seigneur shivered, which she supposed was a good sign. She wondered what she should do to make him feel she was pleasing him.

“Now, little slut, stroke it. with a slow rhythm, your hands moving back and forth. Slowly at first. I’ll tell you when you speed up.” 

Yvan obeyed, and was puzzled to find the cylinder somehow harder and a little larger in her hands. The Seigneur nodded at the beldam. “When I say ‘begin’, beldam. Yvain, you are about to be punished for looking at my face without permission. Sometimes when I have you punished, I will want to hear you count the strokes, thank me, and tell me the lesson you are being taught.”

The cock in her hand seemed to move, upwards, as he spoke those words. He continued, “This time I want only silence from you. The punishment of a serf girl is of no importance. The pleasure of a Seigneur is of total importance. Keep your hands and your eyes on my cock, throughout. Beldam, begin.” 

“Yes, Seigneur.”

Yvain waited for one second of silence while the beldam no doubt raised the strap above her shoulder and took her aim. Then the leather smacked her, filling the room with that sharp impact. The warmth of her bottom sharpened instantly to pain and heat. Yvain suppressed her gasp, and kept her hands on the Seigneur’s cock, making sure she held him no tighter, nor sped up the stroking.

The second and third strokes lashed the tops of her plump thighs, and Yvain knew the beldam was trying to make her squeal again. She bit her lip, determined to remain silent, held her humiliatingly submissive position, offering herself to the strap and serving her Seigneur’s cock.

The next two strokes cracked across her bottom, which was now in exquisite pain. Still the beldam whipped her, remorselessly. At the twelfth stroke the Seigneur said, “Beldam, is this serf slut wet?” 

“Oh yes, Seigneur. Glistening. She spoke the truth about punishment.” 

“Good. Yvain, I want you to put the fingers of your right hand into that dripping little slit.” 


“And get those fingers as wet as you can. Then you anoint my cock with your juices. Begin, girl.” 

Yvain withdrew one hand from his cock. She had the urge to kiss it, which was odd. Then she pushed her fingers into her cunt. The sensation was overwhelming. She moaned, knowing that the sound would only meant more of the strap.

Sinful Sunday: Lying low

It’s not often I got down on my knees for Arethusa. But I wanted my eye level at thigh level. And my view was beautiful, human, womanly, submissive, and also somehow mathematical. I don’t mean you can count the stripes if you like, I mean somehow both warmly living and abstract.